an old man, dark parchment-skin, dry and cracking
quill pen, clean fresh parchment, black ink
thought by thought, stroke by stroke – his story
a son under the cold, under the gray, under the atlantic
staring eyeless at the dark where a gold sun should love him
a daughter in a factory arguing politics, searching
for ammunition against enemies – foreign and domestic
a wife in a tafatta wrap of tears and loss wincing
at every sunset, every moonrise, every last star
that is the first stab of every dream she gave away
for nothing. there is no freedom in hell.